Thinking about the ingredients of American education

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Summer time, and the reading’s easy. Isn’t that how the song goes? To my Compelled Blogger Tribe members, I apologize for the tardiness of this post. My house has been more project than home over the last two months, but things are finally (FINALLY!) coming together, so I’ve been able to put the paint brush down for these 20 minutes and write this blog. Full disclosure: I’m probably writing under the influence of paint fumes.

TOP TWO BOOK RECOMMENDATIONS

Station 11 by Emily St. John Mandel. Yes, I admit, I’m partial to this one because it opens with actors performing a scene from King Lear, but people: buy this book. It is absolutely riveting and beautiful and terrifying and full of hope and humanity.

Sevenevesby Neal Stephenson. I have no idea why I picked up this book at the library. Normally, I’m not drawn to sci-fi, and especially not sci-fi that is 800 pages long. But there was something about this book description that made me take a chance, and I’m so glad I did. First, Stephenson is a genius. I’m hoping he’s not a prophet, but he has definitely earned the job title “futurist.” (Which is really his job title.) Some sections got a liiiittle too technical for my attention span, so I freely admit to skipping a few chunks here and there, but most of it was fascinating. Best of all, I know read technology announcements and think, “Oh, I already know about that. It’s in Seveneves.” Not bad for an English dork!

PERIODICALS

Do people still use that word? Well, I do. Here’s my trifecta: The Atlantic, The New Yorker,The Washington Post. I just discovered a new, online publication called Guernica. The writing is to swoon for.

One article of the last few months stands out for my in hi-definition, and I would go so far as to use the cliche “must-read” for any teacher. You can find it here on The Atlantic’s web site, where Paul Tough has made it tough to ignore the importance of students feeling welcomed and valued in our classrooms and as agents of their own education.

WISH LIST

I’ve been fascinated with early childhood education ever since my daughter entered preschool. (I know, you’re thinking, what a crazy coincidence!) These are two books on my to-read list:

I consider the Compelled Tribe topic for the week: stories of professional growth. I place the concept in my mouth and chew it, slowly. Stories of professional growth. Stories of professional growth.

I’m in graduate school. I stand in front of my very first class on the very first day of my internship and realize, Oh shit. I still have 20 minutes left. Like an oven, I feel my face pre-heating to 500 degrees. I have no backup plan or experience on which to fall back. The students start talking amongst themselves, and I fade to the back of the room and try to look busy with whatever scraps of paper I find on my “desk.” At home, I cry. But then I plan. And plan. And by the end of the night, I have designed enough lessons to teach an extra two weeks before running out of things to do. Professional growth.

It’s my first year of teaching. I don’t know it at the time, but the experience is akin to being a first time mother. I want to be so much to those kids – their inspiration, their educator, their role model. On that first day of school, my heart runneth over with the prospect of Changing People’s Lives. Fast forward to a Tuesday in month three and I’m sending two freshmen to the nurses’ office because they won’t stop farting in class. These are not the things for which graduate school prepares you. That year, I cry a lot. I cry because I’m tired. I cry because I’m overwhelmed. I cry because everyone else in my department is pushing 60, because I’m also the yearbook adviser, and because there’s no supply cabinet and I have to buy my own tape. But most of all I cry because I know – I know – I am not yet the teacher I aspire to be. Professional growth.

I’m in my fourth year of teaching. There’s a girl in my AP Lang class who radiates contempt for everything I teach, and it seems at times, for me personally. I can’t understand why, and sometimes her actions frustrate me to the point of – yep, you guessed it – crying. Because I have a modicum of self-restraint, I don’t cry at the school, but I’m sure the other students sense the tension between us. I ask her to stay after class so we can talk. She thwarts my efforts for an entire week – rushing out as quickly as she can – before I’m finally able to convince her to stay. We stand facing each other. The room is dimly lit by the overhead projector and the sounds of other students fade down the hallway as everyone leaves for the day. I ask, “What’s going on?” She tells me that her mom has brain cancer. I am momentarily stunned. She apologizes for her behavior toward me, but says she just can’t bring herself to care about articles concerning obesity in America. How can I blame her? I realize that it was never about me. We cry. We hug. Humility stares me in the face: it was never about me. Professional growth.

If life is like a box of chocolates, the tears I’ve cried as a teacher are like a box of crayons. Some represent the absolute joys of working with teenagers – the radical red and the electric lime. Some are the color of frustration and angst – raw umber and shadow. Some tears are just cerulean relief and others are hopeful mountain meadow.

Tears have often signaled watershed moments of my professional growth, and I guess I’m not surprised by this realization. All living things need water to grow, and teachers are the amazing living things who Change People’s Lives.